Lazarus Eternal
by Emjay
Summary: This was my legacy, what I would leave behind when and if I ever had the misfortune to die.' Riddle reflects on his making-and-breaking, dearest Virginia, and the atributes of Lucius Malfoy.


Lazarus Eternal

~_That which doesn't kill you will probably try again~_

Unknown

The world turns, and with it I turn too. Days pass, nights pass, our existence is marked with the drawn out passage of time. It is a circle, like a serpent eating its tail, no beginning or end in sight. It simply turns, and it expects us to follow like good little children, living and dying and living again. But wait, I must correct myself. We aren't supposed to live again, correct? We have but one life, one, and we can't expect more like some child unwilling to leave the breast. That is how it has always been on this mortal plain, a monotonous turning of the years, where we live without any reason but to survive and multiply, and damn the future hopeless generations with our mistakes. 

I suppose knowing that made me bitter. I didn't want to survive simply for the reason of begetting more tortured souls like myself, to bring them into a world of honey coated hypocrites and men who tell you there is nothing more than black and white, no in-between to speak of, and be damned if you think otherwise. I wanted something more. I wanted something where I could leave more of a mark on the world than a wide eyed adolescent who knew little, and could do little more, or even worse, nothing but a memory, an oft-remembered son of a doomed marriage that was failed from the start. 

And so, turning off the beaten track was what I did, choosing a path that too many of my dull witted compatriots failed to discover, or simply chose not to, a road of ambition, not blind ambition as so many would have you believe, but a road of cunning and mind exhausting work that ultimately left me in a far better place than any who had come before me. If my professors thought it odd, or suspicious in any way for one so silent and brusquely civil, who seemed to hold nothing more than cold indifference for authority to come alive and prosper under their steady instruction, they didn't say so.

They praised me for my genius, for I had plenty of that, my charm, for I had plenty of that too, and allowed me every grace under the Scottish sun. Nothing could touch me. They hailed my accomplishments and looked on for more, their mouths frothing with anticipation and excitement. And behind it all, behind their words of praise and admiration, behind the awards and special gifts, I planned, and waited. 

And so the world turned, and they watched me go with misty eyes and sorrowful good-byes on their lips. All save one, but I could hardly look for such things from him. He was the only one who saw me for what I truly was, who knew my ambition and success for something else entirely. His infuriatingly blue eyes would graze over me in class, watching without a word as I transfigured my partner into an ornate Egyptian vase, seemingly without effort, and the twinkle so many mistook for senility or eccentricity hid a calculating glare that saw everything. Nothing could get past him, not even my most sugar coated responses. He knew me for what I was, and what I would be, but for whatever reason, he let me go. Even now I couldn't say what stayed his tongue. Hope perhaps, that useless emotion so many rely on. Perhaps he hoped that I wouldn't become the man that haunted my dreams, the man that I so wanted to be.

'Evil is not born, but made' I remember him saying once. The others in class didn't see it, but as the words left his mouth I could feel those blue eyes on my bent head, searing an accusing brand across my scalp. I was bold enough even then to look back up at him and meet it, daring him to say the words I knew were sitting just there on the tip of his wrinkled tongue, waiting to be spilled forth. Again he said nothing, and silently, I knew then that I had won the war. He wasn't ever going to say anything against me, because in truth, what did he have to say? My record was spotless, even he had to admit that. I covered my tracks well, and there was nothing he could do. So unfortunate isn't it? 

Even as the towers and turrets of Hogwarts faded into the distance behind me on my final trip home (if you could even call it that) my entire being was buzzing with anticipation. While I sat alone in my compartment, watching the countryside fly by in a blur of mottled colour, my mind was back at Hogwarts, deep in the bowels of that mighty castle, reminding myself again just what it was I'd left behind and fair moaning with the pleasure of it. My plan was in motion, and I thought nothing could stop me now. Those doddering professors, locked away in their precious sanctum with their shining ideals could hardly fathom what it was I was about to do, the power, the scope, the grandeur, the _intention_. They pictured their little genius holing himself away to work out the solution to world peace, while I pictured myself rising above the dour gray of common society and sweeping the world clean with one mighty hand, obliterating the useless and the filthy and replacing it with the clean and pure, the powerful and the ambitious. 

While my body aged and sunk in on itself, my mind, my _legacy_, that pure and untainted part of me would remain as it was when I opened the resisting cover of my crisp new journal and spoke those first dark words of incantation. The feeling as the arcane power swept through me, tendrils of black magic pulling away at my mind with nimble little fingers, was unparalleled to anything I'd ever had the chance to know. When like the wind blowing through a window it swept out of me and infused the stark white pages with my essence, I'd near wept with the beauty of it, and the satisfaction of knowing that with this, I'd never die. The sensation made me heady with giddiness, and I'm sure any one who'd walked by my room at that moment would have heard me cackling away in the darkness, cradling the journal close to my chest.

This was my legacy, what I would leave behind when and if I ever had the misfortune to die. What had simply been an urge to leave my mark on the world had so quickly changed into something bigger, and new dreams and goals were already forming inside by buzzing head, aspirations of immortality and control. At that moment, the journal I'd so painstakingly created with everything I had to give, mind, flesh and blood, was suddenly thrown on the back burner in favor of those tempting dreams. Little did I know then how much it would come to mean to me later, but then I was young, and perhaps even a little foolish, caught up in the carrying wave of ambition, suddenly without any guiding foresight to speak of. That wave carried me far, but even waves of such kind must eventually crash onto shore, and it was unfortunate for me that my moment of "crashing", as it were, was to be in the upstairs bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Potter on the night of October 31, 1981, at the hand of a young boy nary older than one. The irony of it left me staggering, and a bitterness, a fury such as I have never known infused the paltry bit of me that was left, carrying me forward on a new wave, one that would bring me further than I'd ever gone.

Now, I must admit that even I did not think that one of my faithful Death Eaters would rise to the occasion so admirably. Lucius Malfoy was indeed a man gifted with an appalling amount of knowledge, cunning, ambition, beauty and of course, money, who knew what he wanted and could take it as he so pleased. His position as my second in command was in itself a gift, and a curse in equal measure. While I knew his loyalty was as strong and unbending as I could hope for, I knew too that this only extended to the point of my being alive, not anything beyond the corporeal. Once that line was crossed, I was dead and gone to him, and he wouldn't exhaust himself trying to do anything about it. As far as he was concerned, I was just a foothold for him to traverse on his way to the pinnacle of power, nothing more, nothing less. He'd said as much to me on that first night we met, his chiseled aristocratic face nothing short of dead serious.

_A Malfoy serves no one_, he'd drawled, and his voice had been so sultry and convincing that I'd nearly let him get away with it. While he was writhing on the expensive rug no two seconds later, pitiful whimpers of unimaginable pain floating past his barely parted lips, we'd come to an agreement of sorts. He would be my equal, we would strive for the very same things, side by side, and if ever either one of us were to die, the other would carry on and follow through with our tandem goal. He would play the groveling servant, and I the merciful master, and none would be the wiser. We shook hands like civilized men afterwards, though I didn't miss the fiery longing to return my punishment in full simmering behind a carefully placed shield in his storm gray eyes, and I left with a new servant secured, my mark still smoldering on his right arm. Of course, what I'd assured him wasn't entirely true, but he didn't need to know that, now did he?

None the less, he did my work well, comfortable with the notion that we were partners, and I humored him by lavishing praise and doling out the authority he so clearly craved. Happy to play his little games with the others, he didn't have a second thought as to what I might really be doing. This served my purpose well, and I never gave him any reason to doubt me. I imagined he still was suspicious now and again, as is the Malfoy way, but I was just as good at playing the game of deception as was he, and what was more, I was better. While those smoldering gray eyes of his veiled every emotion and cut it off at its source, I had no such emotions to hide, and therefore had a far better poker face than he, to put it simply.

So, you can see why I doubted his loyalty after my fall. The words with which I'd pulled him in rang like laughter in my ears as that curse that had felled many an unfortunate witch and wizard flew towards me, death's face a mocking mask before my eyes, hands draped in molding sinew reaching out to me, ready to make me atone for my cruelties. 

Always one to surprise, Lucius took my demise as a challenge. Having been spared Azkaban under the plead of Imperius, he had time to kill and thought he might as well give my innocuous little diary a chance. A simple, unnoticed switch was all that was required of him, and then he could sit back and watch the mayhem, glass of expensive brandy in hand. I would have given anything to be there the moment his little wretch of a son's first letter soared through the window and landed in his lap, bearing the most exciting news of tidings at Hogwarts. I knew with a certainty the look on his flawless face would have been priceless as he read the hastily written script, that cupid bow mouth curling into delicious glee after the shock wore off. How could he, even one so clever as him, have known it would have come off so spectacularly? I'm sure he would have been out of his seat in an instant, cane in hand, ready to muddy the waters just a little more, plans already formulating themselves in his pretty little head. 

Those first few minutes of complete awareness and clarity as the Weasley girl began her writing was like a breath of unimaginably fresh air, a dousing of cold water on a hot, sticky day. I felt whole again, or as whole as someone in a diary can feel, and immediately made a mental note to do something very special for dear old Lucius the second I was free. Without even knowing it I'm sure, he placed my journal in the hands of a perfect subject, a willing, pliable little girl fresh out of childhood and awash with all the emotions I would need to bend her under my thumb. It was laughably easy, I must say, to put Ginny Weasley at ease. With my reassuring words of kindness and hope, she melted like butter, spilling every truth, every fantasy, every worry and just about everything else in between to my kind ear, including plenty unnecessary blather about that insipid Potter child. I coddled her, and gave her advice, and listened like any good friend would do, and then when I was sure she was ready, I struck, metaphorical fangs sunk deep into her youthful flesh.

It wasn't until she first came to me with her anxieties, the complaints of blackouts, the strange blood on her robes, that I began humming with anticipation and excitement. I was so close, I could already hear the sound of Potters neck snapping neatly under my hands, could already hear the garbled, gasping sound of his last fruitless efforts to survive petering off into merciful silence, the sinister Halleluia chorus to my twisted vision of heaven above.

I must say, while she does my work well, I am finding myself increasingly bored with her frippery and innocent tears. Her simpering words make me ache with revulsion, sending my non-existent stomach into a roiling mess of nausea and disgust. And she whines, oh how she whines. At the merest slight she is reduced to a wailing mass of tears and snot. I imagine one good shove and she would crumple lifelessly at my feet, although I would be too lucky to have her say nothing about it. She writes her inane ramblings and I bite my tongue, supplying her with pleasantries and sugary words by the cartload, only barely stopping myself from reaching though the aged pages and throttling her just to stop the barrage of "_Oh Tom_"'s. It is absurdly tempting, I will say that. Many a time spent alone with nothing but my thoughts has made for some creative methods for dealing with Ginny Weasley, none of which have anything to do with comfort or kindness. On the contrary, in fact. It amuses me to no end to learn that a cunningly applied bed sheet has somehow become my weapon of choice.

At least, if for nothing else, she is just as loyal to me as Lucius ever has been, and I can't complain with that. _Open the chamber my pet_. She does. _Write my message on the wall dear Virginia. _She writes. _Jump you insipid girl_. She asks how high.

As if she ever had any choice.

The days grow longer and I wait, spreading my own special seed of doubt and mistrust among the residents of this caging castle. Ginny comes to me again and again, her worries multiplying like vermin, and I continue to play the listening confidante. She doesn't think for a second that I'm nothing more than I seem, and I intend to keep it that way, by any means possible.

__

Oh Tom….

Speak of the devil, she's back. _Yes, Virginia? What is the problem?_

Oh Tom the attacks are getting worse….Hermione was petrified today! Hermione! Oh Tom…I'm so scared. I keep waking up with blood on my robes, and the other week I found rooster feathers on my shoes. Tom…I think I'm the one attacking people! 

Don't be silly Virginia. How could you possibly be the one attacking the students? 

I don't know Tom, but I can't help but think….

Virginia, listen to me. You are not the one attacking the students. 

You really think so?

I know so. Now why are you still talking to me? You have that Charms essay due, remember?

Right. Thank you Tom. You're always here when I need you. I don't know what I'd do without you…

You're welcome Virginia. Now get started on that essay, or you'll never finish. 

Bye Tom.

Because it's just that easy.

Good-bye dearest Virginia. The next time you hear from me, I'll most likely be dancing on your pathetic grave. Please try not to be hurt. Another round of tears will get you nowhere. Not this time. 

And Virginia, I do hope we never meet again.

A/N: Hmm…this was a rewrite of something that I wrote a while ago. I like it much better than the previous version, and I dearly hope you liked it too! Please R&R and tell me what you think.


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